Authors: Deborah Challinor
Slightly startled, Emily struggled to resurrect her own rusty French. ‘
Bonjour, monsieur. Je suis heureux également de vous rencontrer. De quelle région de la France êtes-vous?
’
Pierre shook his head. ‘
Non, Madame, pas France. Je suis Arcadien de bayou, de Louisiane
.’
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ Emily said.
‘She is a simple mistake,’ Pierre replied, lifting his arms in a not-to-worry gesture and wafting the scent of lavender towards Emily. Then he smiled widely, revealing what appeared to be several solid-gold teeth.
Next to him was a brown-skinned man whose wavy black hair hung down to his shoulders. He had a slightly hooked nose and was rather good-looking in an untamed sort of way, Emily
thought, though he seemed a little reserved.
‘Mama,’ Kitty said, ‘this is Ropata, a New Zealand Maori from the Ngati Kahungungu tribe on the East Coast.’
Emily regarded him with interest: he was the first Maori she had encountered. But her attention was soon diverted by the light-skinned man standing on the Maori boy’s left; a young man who no doubt had broken plenty of hearts already in his time. He had the most alluring, sparkling black eyes, a head of the loveliest black curls, and beautiful white teeth revealed by a very charming smile.
He bowed slightly. ‘Top of the morning to you, missus. And it’s clear to me already where Kitty gets her lovely looks, so it is.’
‘Thank you,’ Emily replied, trying not to smile. Typical Irish blarney!
‘This is Mick Doyle, Mama,’ Kitty said. ‘His mam looked after us when we were in Sydney.’
‘In that case,’ Emily said, ‘please pass on my heartfelt thanks to your mother the next time you see her, Mr Doyle.’
‘I will that,’ Mick replied, and then, although Emily wasn’t entirely sure, she thought he might have winked at her.
Finally, Kitty came to the man Emily had been trying very hard not to stare at. He was
huge
, an enormous fellow with massive arms and legs, skin as dark as blue-black ink and a completely shaved head.
He stepped forward and said, in the deepest voice she had ever heard, ‘Your servant, ma’am. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, and equally delighted to be able to attend your daughter’s nuptials. Kitty is a wonderful young lady and we are all very pleased that our captain has convinced her to become his wife.’
Emily blinked.
‘And this is Gideon,’ Kitty said, thoroughly enjoying herself.
‘Thank you very much, Mr Gideon,’ Emily replied. Out of the corner of her eye she saw that Nellie had subsided onto the garden bench, her hand over her mouth now instead of her eyes.
‘No, ma’am, it is just Gideon,’ Gideon corrected.
Emily felt like collapsing onto the bench herself. Over the past few days she had managed to…accommodate the idea of Kitty marrying Rian Farrell and sailing off with him. But that ‘accommodation’ was receding rapidly now that she had seen the sort of men that Kitty would be living with. She’d been prepared for a fairly rugged group, but certainly not this extraordinary, motley and decidedly untrustworthy-looking collection. But the wedding wasn’t until Friday; perhaps she could manage to dissuade her daughter after all.
She glanced across and saw that Kitty was gazing straight back. Then, very slowly, Kitty simply shook her head, and Emily knew in her heart that it really was too late.
Kitty woke up with a smile on her face, and she knew why: today was the day she was marrying Rian.
She sat up, stretched, then climbed out of bed and looked beneath it for the chamber pot. She used it, then put it aside to take downstairs later, reflecting that one of the many good things about living on a schooner was that you just threw everything over the side. She sat down for a moment on the window seat.
The day before, Thursday, had been rather draining. She and her mother had visited a shoemaker and had managed to find a pair of slippers for the wedding. That had gone well, but when they had stopped at a tea shop Emily’s smile had slipped and, halfway through her ginger cake, she’d burst into tears.
Kitty knew why, of course. She felt for her mother and she loved her dearly, but she couldn’t bring herself to deliberately close all the wonderful doors that had slowly opened to her over
the past two years, and give up the chance of a lifetime of love and passion, challenge and excitement. And these, Kitty knew, were almost as important to her as the promise of love. To have to return to a life of silly etiquette, limited horizons and grinding predictability now would cripple her.
So instead of yet again trying to explain and justify her reasons for marrying Rian, and then probably arguing with mother anyway, she had simply asked Emily to trust her. Her mother had continued to weep, in a very lady-like manner naturally, but the tears had eventually slowed and she had nodded her agreement, then made Kitty promise to come straight home if anything ever went wrong. And Kitty
had
promised, and meant it.
She smiled again, shivering with delighted anticipation at the thought of becoming Mrs Kitty Farrell, although, unexpectedly, she was feeling nervous about the actual ceremony. But the thought of spending the rest of her life with Rian; of waking next to him every morning, of knowing he would love and respect her to the very best of his ability, and of rising each day to a new adventure, together—what heaven!
Nellie knocked and stuck her head around the bedroom door. ‘Miss Kitty, your mam says are you ready for breakfast yet?’
Kitty climbed off the window seat. ‘Honestly, Nellie, stop calling me “Miss Kitty”. It makes me feel like somebody’s desiccated old maiden aunt.’
‘Beg pardon,’ Nellie said contritely, and produced a tray containing a plate of poached eggs on toast and a pot of tea, next to which stood a tiny vase holding a single cream rose.
‘Did Mama pick the rose?’ Kitty asked.
‘First thing,’ Nellie confirmed.
Kitty’s eyes pricked with tears. She sat in the white wicker chair in front of her dressing table, stared down at the lurid yellow eggs and felt her stomach lurch ominously.
Quickly, she handed the tray back. ‘Oh, no, I really don’t
think I can eat anything this morning.’
Nellie looked uneasy. ‘Your mam said you have to. She said you can’t get married on an empty stomach.’
‘I’ll have the tea,’ Kitty bargained.
‘I’m not to take your plate down with anything on it,’ Nellie insisted.
Even the smell was making Kitty sick now. She rose, took the plate from Nellie again and crossed to the window. Unlatching it, she tossed out the eggs and returned the plate to Nellie. ‘There, there’s nothing on it now,’ she said.
Nellie looked astonished, then burst into a high, tinkling laugh that was most unexpected from such a staid girl.
‘Nellie, will you be my bridesmaid?’ Kitty asked impulsively. ‘Hawk will be Rian’s best man, but I haven’t invited any of my old friends.’
‘Me?’ Nellie squeaked.
Kitty nodded.
A deep, pink glow suffused Nellie’s round cheeks. ‘Ooh, yes, please. I’ve never been a bridesmaid before.’ Then her face fell. ‘Oh, but I don’t have anything nice to wear.’
‘Don’t you have a dress for church or something like that?’
‘I’ve got my dark green calico. It has lace on it, but it’s a bit old.’
‘Well, wear that and pin a rose in your hair. You’ll look lovely!’
Nellie grinned hugely and trotted away happily to draw Kitty a bath.
Kitty sat anxiously in her room. It was half past ten and she had just finished getting dressed. Her mother’s gown looked beautiful on her, she had to admit, and she had twisted her shining black hair up into a loose knot and tucked three or four cream rose buds into the folds. Her hair fell past her shoulders
these days; it had grown very quickly since she’d had most of it cut off fifteen months before after an almost-fatal accident on the
Katipo
. Pierre had been regularly dosing her with the most disgusting concoction, which he insisted was a secret Arcadian potion guaranteed to make hair grow. It smelt like sick and tasted worse, but it certainly seemed to be working. Her mother had also given her the rope of small but very pretty family pearls to wear at her throat, where they sat now, gleaming softly against the faint tan of her skin.
She had been nervous before, but now she was close to having a very uncharacteristic attack of the vapours because, sitting in the bath, it had suddenly occurred to her that Rian might not turn up. He had not come to the house for his dinner last night, as he had done for the previous three evenings, because the crew had insisted that, as it was his last night of ‘freedom’, he was entitled to spend it getting drunk at the tavern. Kitty had only laughed when he’d told her, but what if he’d changed his mind? What if, sometime during the evening, he had come to the conclusion that he didn’t want to be saddled with a wife after all, and had simply gone back to King’s Lynn and sailed out of her life forever? The thought had been so awful that she had contemplated not even bothering to put on her wedding dress. Her mother had told her not to be so silly, that even she could see that the man was absolutely besotted with her, and to get out of the bath before she caught a chill.
So here she was, clean and fragrant and looking lovely, but feeling sick with anxiety. Her mother had invited several guests, and Kitty knew they had arrived and were downstairs. Mr Sanders, a teacher at the school at which her father had also taught, had come with his wife Maud, who was a close friend of Emily’s. The neighbours, Mr and Mrs Moon, were also here, and so was old Hector Billingsworth, who tended Emily’s garden once a week, and of whom Emily was extremely fond. And of
course, Mrs Ingram, Nellie’s mother, had been at the house since six that morning, preparing food for the wedding breakfast. And that was all. Kitty was aware that her mother had invited only people she knew would not pass judgement on Kitty’s behaviour, past or present, and for that she was grateful.
‘Kitty?’ Emily appeared in the doorway. ‘The vicar is here.’
‘I don’t want to go downstairs. I don’t want to see him,’ Kitty muttered.
‘Well, you’ll have to if you’re expecting him to marry you, darling.’
‘No, I mean I don’t want to see him before Rian gets here.
If
he gets here,’ Kitty said gloomily. ‘It might be bad luck.’
Emily refrained from rolling her eyes. ‘It’s only bad luck if your future husband sees you in your wedding dress before the ceremony. Now, come on, don’t be silly. Reverend Goodall would like to have a word with you.’
‘In my bedroom?’ Kitty asked, sounding shocked.
‘Yes, if you won’t come down.’
‘But, Mama, what will people say?’
Emily had had just about enough of Kitty’s surly mood this morning. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Kitty, it’s a bit late to be worrying about that sort of thing, don’t you think? Now stop sulking and try to look a little more like a blushing bride. I’ll bring the vicar up.’
Kitty gazed after her mother as she left the room, wanting to shout out that she was scared stiff, but something—could it have been pride?—prevented her.
A minute later Reverend Goodall appeared. A short, round man, he had known Kitty since she was six years old. He was wearing a cassock, surplice and scarf, having decided to forgo his alb and chasuble because of the informality of the wedding. By nature a cheerful person, he was having a rare moment of melancholy as Emily Carlisle had just informed him that there
still had not been any news of her brother George’s whereabouts. The disappearance of clergymen serving in far-flung corners of the empire was not unheard of, of course, but to have known one personally was somewhat disturbing. However, he produced his jolliest smile, hoping that it didn’t look as false as Kitty’s. Oh dear, he thought, surely not trouble already?
‘Good morning, Kitty, my dear.’
‘Hello, Reverend Goodall,’ Kitty replied, her tenuous smile evaporating.
‘That’s a long face for someone about to be married, I must say!’
Kitty didn’t respond.
‘It’s not wedding jitters, is it?’ the vicar asked. ‘Because if it is, I can assure you that almost every bride I have ever married has suffered from them. It’s perfectly normal when a young woman is about to embark on a new—’ He stopped. He had been going to say ‘adventure’, but as he knew that Kitty Carlisle had had plenty of those already, and very colourful ones by all accounts, he hurriedly changed tack. ‘A new life. And it’s a big responsibility, taking on a husband, you know!’ He chuckled heartily, but he did it by himself.
He saw then that Kitty was genuinely upset, and sat down to explain to her exactly what the ceremony would entail, thinking that it might help to settle her nerves. He’d just got to the bit where the newly married couple sign the parish register when the sound of someone arriving came through the open window.
Kitty leapt up and ran to look. When she pulled her head back in she was transformed, an enormous smile lighting up her face and her eyes shining.
‘He’s here!’ she exclaimed to the vicar. ‘Rian’s here!’ And she ran across the room, gave Reverend Goodall a resounding kiss on the cheek and darted out the door, leaving him sitting speechless in the wicker chair.
Kitty tore down the stairs, along the flagstoned hall and out through the front door, where she launched herself at Rian. He caught her and swung her around, then took her in his arms.
‘What’s all this?’ he asked gently, looking down at her.
‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ Kitty said breathlessly, feeling the warmth of a blush finally begin to creep across her face.
‘Sweetheart, wild horses couldn’t keep me away.’
‘I thought you might have changed your mind.’
Rian kissed the tip of her nose. ‘
Mo ghrá
, I have never been more certain of anything in my life.’
Kitty laughed out loud. ‘Good. Let’s get married then, shall we?’
And so they did.
Sydney, December 1844